with an appeal to my heart not to be mistaken. Before I could think, I
felt they were Bianca's. For an instant I paused, overpowered with
agitation. I feared to break in suddenly upon her. I softly ascended
the steps of the pavilion. The door was open. I saw Bianca seated at a
table; her back was towards me; she was warbling a soft melancholy air,
and was occupied in drawing. A glance sufficed to show me that she was
copying one of my own paintings. I gazed on her for a moment in a
delicious tumult of emotions. She paused in her singing; a heavy sigh,
almost a sob followed. I could no longer contain myself. "Bianca!"
exclaimed I, in a half smothered voice. She started at the sound;
brushed back the ringlets that hung clustering about her face; darted a
glance at me; uttered a piercing shriek and would have fallen to the
earth, had I not caught her in my arms.

"Bianca! my own Bianca!" exclaimed I, folding her to my bosom; my voice
stifled in sobs of convulsive joy. She lay in my arms without sense or
motion. Alarmed at the effects of my own precipitation, I scarce knew
what to do. I tried by a thousand endearing words to call her back to
consciousness. She slowly recovered, and half opening her eyes--"where
am I?" murmured she faintly. "Here," exclaimed I, pressing her to my
bosom. "Here! close to the heart that adores you; in the arms of your
faithful Ottavio!"

"Oh no! no! no!" shrieked she, starting into sudden life and
terror--"away! away! leave me! leave me!"

She tore herself from my arms; rushed to a corner of the saloon, and
covered her face with her hands, as if the very sight of me were
baleful. I was thunderstruck--I could not believe my senses. I followed
her, trembling, confounded. I endeavored to take her hand, but she